The Engineer and the Ingénu
by Icarus Isambard
Summary: When his attempt to dodge the Seraph draft leads to a black eye and an embarrassing arrest in a moa shed, 18-year-old Ffeldy will be lucky to get a job as apprentice armorer in the Mists. In a series of misadventures proving Ffeldy does NOT have what it takes to be fighter, mage, or thief, his ineptitude catches the eye of an asuran engineer in need of a suitable test subject.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

_Oh, Melandru wears a skirt of leaves and carries a rake and hoe,_

_She dances all about our fields and sings for the crops to grow._

_Her skirts come tumbling off each fall when our harvests and prayers flow free,_

_But easy lad—don't jump ahead—'cause her bottom half's made of tree._

_- old Seraph marching song, currently banned_

On the eve of his eighteenth birthday, the day before he was to report for his compulsive military service in Divinity's Reach, Ffeldy ran away. Two hours after the recruitment sergeant reported him absent, a farmer in the Kessex Hills went to feed his moa flock, found Ffeldy hunkering in a shed, and reported him to the authorities. Ten minutes after that, Seraph from the nearest fort arrived. Ffeldy was knocked soundly on the head, apprehended, and led away with his wrists bound.

"Happy birthday, you ingrate," growled the farmer. Jagged scars lined his face and hands.

"And what kinda soljer do you think you are, kneeling in moa-dirt with yer hands over yer face, lad?" asked one of the guards as he led Ffeldy past the farmer, the farmer's wife, and their six children who had all run over to watch and laugh and throw bits of dandelion and moa-dirt.

"I'm not fit for soljering, I'll be terrible at it, and I don't see why I should march off when plenty of other lads'd be there in my place in a second," blubbered Ffeldy. "Besides, I'm a conscientious objector." He'd been socked in the eye, which was starting to swell and he couldn't see out of it very well. He licked metal-tasting moisture from his lip. Maybe his nose was bleeding. He couldn't check because his hands were tied behind his back.

"Heh, next he'll be telling us that the farmer knew elemental majik an' rooted his feet to the ground or turned him to stone or some-such," said the second guard. Actually, the farmer had indeed used minor earth-magic to root Ffeldy's feet to the ground when he'd first spotted him, and applied a stony veneer to his shins to keep him long enough for the Seraph to arrive.

"Aye, and only a complete skritt-brain doesn't run for the hills and lets himself be captured. You had a ten minute head-start, lad. But Queen Jenna needs her soljers, and you'll make as good a meat shield as any. Though yer a scrawny one. Don't fear. We'll jus' have to thicken you up a bit first."

The guards marched Ffeldy along the old outpost road, resting only to dismantle the occasional centaur spike trap. The sun shone on the green hills, and at first Ffeldy was relieved to be free from the suffocating moa-stink of the shed. But then the fields gave way to scattered timber-and-wattle cottages. People came to the doors of their homes to see the little procession, and kids ran up to the front gate, and one well-borne looking woman in fancy fish-scale armor spat in the dust as Ffeldy was marched by. Even disregarding their prisoner, who was still smeared with moa-dirt and dressed in tawdry dirt-colored clothes made of canvas and old split leather, the two guards by themselves were a sight to behold.

Ffeldy remembered when he was the age of these children watching from the roadside, and used to watch the Seraph pass by his own front gate in Claypool. They always wore matching burnished breastplates and golden helmets and greaves that clattered as they walked. Each soldier had a sword and scabbard, and a shield shaped like a golden wing on one arm. In battle, Ffeldy thought a Seraph probably looked like that hero from the poem his mother recited sometimes, the one who transformed herself halfway into an eagle.

"Come, lad," said the Seraph marching at Ffeldy's left elbow. "Why would you not want to be a soljer? Aye, you are one of the worst scrappers I've seen yet, but our drill captain can batter fighting know-how into the thickets of skulls. Even yours, I imagine, though I don't envy him the task."

"Sure, sure," said the Seraph on Ffeldy's right. "You may not live to be an old man in the army, but they ensure you have a nice enough few years. Or months. Wine, decent food, half an egg-shell full of hard spirits twice a week, the odd brothel permission slip. Old age isn't as nice as it's made out to be."

"I know about soljering," mumbled Ffeldy.

"What's that, young meat shield?" said the left Seraph.

"My Da' was a soljer. He was killed by centaurs when I was seven. An' five of my brothers were drafted. Only one still writes home to Ma. And I'm the youngest."

"Well," said the rightmost Seraph in a reassuring voice, "at least your ma has your sisters at home."

Ffeldy didn't mention that he only had one sister, and she was in the Order of Whispers, whatever that was. And since the Order was usually up to some sort of illegal something-or-other, which was all Ffeldy knew about it anyways, he kept his mouth shut. Besides, she had seemed very eager to leave home two years ago and hadn't ever seemed to like him much.

"And what did you think you were going to do after you ran away?" asked the left Seraph, giving Ffeldy's shoulder a shake. "Live off the land until and Ettin dragged into its cave and lived off you instead?"

"I could be a tinkerer. Or…a merchant, maybe. Or if I could prove my skill I could repair armor in the Eternal Battle Grounds. There's lots of need for that sort of think there. Not everyone has to be a fighter. Do they?"

The two Seraph ignored his rhetorical question, though he hadn't meant for it to sound so rhetorical.

"Methinks the lad is full of so much putrid essence. We should render him down and sell him for good coin at the trading post. What about these objects you were carrying, eh lad? What exactly would an armor repairman be wanting with a set of _these_?" The rightmost Seraph released Ffeldy's elbow and held up three small multi-colored crocheted sacks. "Are you a juggler, boy? Running off to the circus?" The soldier tossed the three sacks and caught them again—actually beanbags that Ffeldy had made himself by filling small satchels with dried beans and stitched closed.

"I was not going to join the circus." He could tell that his face was hot with embarrassment and he prayed that the civilians they passed couldn't hear the conversation. The Seraph with the beanbags tried to juggle and managed a few bad tosses and catches before one bag went soaring out of control and hit Ffeldy in his already swollen eye. Ffeldy's knees buckled and, with his hands tied, he couldn't catch himself before collapsing forward onto his face. The second Seraph should have caught him, but he was doubled up and helpless with laughter at the first Seraph's antics. Ffeldy struggled to stand, but before he could stumble away into someone's cow pasture and escape, the Seraph had him by the elbows again.

"Don't look so shamefaced," said the Seraph who resumed his position on Ffeldy's right. "One out of three people we catch trying to desert are 'running off to the circus.' Seems a popular fantasy with the youngsters. Isn't that right, Melbus?"

"Aye, and if it's not the circus, it's finding their real parents or somesuch. Retrievin' the body of a lost brother—"

"Lost sister, Melbus. It's always the sister."

"Aye, sister. Odd thing, that."

The Seraph fell silent for a while, only the sound of the gravel scuffling under their boots reminding Ffeldy that he wasn't alone. Then Melbus piped up.

"Well, lad, just be glad you're not in the Grove and we're not a stand of those Sylvari plant people."

"Why is that, Melbus?" asked the rightmost man when Ffeldy didn't rise to the bait.

"Running around with those sacks of beans? The Sylvari'd dig your feet inna ground like a tree and set them fernhounds on you for them sacks of beans. 'Trafficking of minors' is what they'd call it."

The Seraph didn't stop laughing until they delivered Ffeldy to the captain of the guard inside the sun-bleached stone walls of Fort Salma.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

_Well human lads, and lasses too, were always meant for war,_

_But if you like art and science and such, take a lesson from old Malchor._

_As sculptor he, per Dwayna's whim, gave years of his hands and mind,_

_To sculpt six likenesses of the gods—his thanks? Dwayna made him blind._

_- old Seraph marching song, currently banned_

Instead of formal introductions, the sergeant of the night guard had Ffeldy locked in a cell for the night, to "discourage nighttime steeplechases" as she put it. The cell was really more like a cleaning closet. It was dark, and smelled of silver polish and saddle soap. And it was already occupied.

"The lieutenant will see you lot inna morning for a bit of discipline, then you'll be sent along to Divinity's Reach," said the sergeant of the guard as she shoved Ffeldy inside. "Try not to eat each other alive before then. As you were, then." The door closed, then opened just a crack. "Oh, and young man, the lieutenant won't mind if I return these to you," said the sergeant, and placed the three bags of dried beans in Ffeldy's hand. "Seeing you probably couldn't assault no guards, nor harm yourself with 'em."

"Uh…thank y—" Began Ffeldy, but the door shut again, this time for good.

"Ah," said a treacley male voice in the gloom, "a green stick of a lad, is it? And with three satchels, no less. Hand 'em over, let's have a look."

Ffeldy tried to tuck the bags away, then realized one of them was already missing. Beans rattled somewhere off to his left, then he heard a ripping sound as if the seam had been torn.

"Atty, let's have a light, shall we? And see how rich the lad is."

"Very well," said an unenthused female voice. "But I can't hold a light for very long. I'll have to use—what is this? A dust rag on a stick?—since they confiscated my scepter."

A strand of blue electricity appeared in the middle of the room. It cast just enough light for Ffeldy to make out the sharp, mustached face of the man and the tall, dark-skinned woman sitting beside him on an up-turned rinse bucket.

"Oh Grenth's middle finger, Atty, the lad must've sold his poor mother's cow for a pile of worthless beans. Be glad you were arrested, boy, or that old mother of yours'd beat you up, down and around the village green for falling for that old con-artist trick. Er…they aren't majicked beans now, are they?"

"No sir," said Ffeldy. "No one was ever expanded or shrunken or otherwise assaulted by majicks, wanted or no, from that crop of beans."

"Wait, wait," said the man. "Atalanta, bring that light closer, I can't quite make this out. Can you brighten it? Bring out a bit more yellow so I can see? There's something here mixed in the beans."

"You know," said Atalanta, "I should charge you a silver for every spell I cast for your personal use." But she brightened the light and toned the color anyway.

The man held up a tiny glass disc between his fingers. "Well I'll be…"

"It's nothing," said Ffeldy quickly. "Nothing of value. Jus' parts of an old telescope I had from my brother, he was a sailor. It couldn't take it with me—it's long as my arm—so I salvaged the important bits. The lens, that's what you're holding now, sir. Some of the brass fittings are there, an' in these other bags. I'll make a better one someday with new parts as I can find them."

"Atty," said the man, still studying the bits of glass and metal, "can you test for residual majicks? Curses?"

"I think the Seraph would have detected magical residue if it had been there."

"Humor me, my apple blossom…"

"I'm no one's apple blossom, Domanick. Unless blossoming means I plant an apple seed in your gullet and have it grow inside you until a tree bursts out your stomach and ears. I may have that power." Atalanta looked at Ffeldy and lowered her voice. "I'm sorry about him. He's just a bitter thief who was caught filching from the Seraph storerooms. Obviously he is not a very good one because he was caught. Isn't that right, Domanick?"

"I'm not bitter, Atty. When I don't eat nothing for a few hours I just get…the jitters. Can you just test the lad's baubles so I can sleep in peace? Please?"

"You're bitter." Atalanta held out a hand, and Domanick placed the bits of telescope in her palm. She held the lens to her eye, then blew on it. "It's a well-crafted lens. There's some perceivable, uh, doctoring, but only in the scientific sense. No magic here."

Domanick huffed a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Atty."

Atalanta held her hands apart and let a twist of white lightning arc between them."I know it looks like I'm doing what he says," she said to Ffeldy, who had very much wanted to ask the question but didn't feel it his place to ask, "but I merely happen to be interested myself in your…baubles. Also, I've already reminded Domanick—and now I'm warning you, young friend—that if you touch me or even look at me in a way I deem improper, I may sting you a bolt that can stop your heart. Understood?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Excellent." She held out her hand for Ffeldy to shake. Well, he hoped she expected a shake. Kissing her hand seemed…dangerous. "You may call me Atty."

"I'm called Ffeldy, miss."

She laughed at his hesitation to take her hand. "Then we shall tolerate one another pleasantly until the guard releases us in the morning, shan't we."

"Come on, lad," said Domanick, "stop standing there all awkward-like at the door, making us nervous. Have a seat on this pallet. There's only the one, but it's not too lumpy or flat. Here is your satchel, beans and the rest of it. Sorry if I gave you a turn. I had a chap take out a purse once, like he was about to pay me off for holding my knife at his throat, and he threw a handful of majicked blinding dust at my face. Can you believe the nerve? A thief can't be too careful these days. Anyway. Looking at your dried beans all edible and not at the same time, it's near torture when you're as starved as I."

"Didn't they give us water? Couldn't we just cook them up?" said Ffeldy hesitantly as he sat down where Domanick had pointed. "With, uh, Atty's skill, of course."

"Not a chance," said Atalanta. "There's not enough ventilation in this cell, not even a window. I start even a tiny fireball, and we'll suffocate in minutes, if not seconds."

"There is water, though," said Domanick hopefully. "In that copper pot."

"But what about that other magic skill from just now?" said Ffeldy. "The lightning? You used that."

"Electricity isn't the same as fire."

Ffeldy tried to listen to his thoughts over the rumbling of his own stomach. "Yes, but…have you ever tried doing anything else with it? Besides lighting up rooms and, beg your pardon, shocking villains like Domanick an' myself. I hear the Asura bottle it like fireflies in jar, and get it to work for 'em like a tamed hive of bees. An sometimes without majicks."

"What," laughed Domanick, "Did the asura catch lightning by standing out in a thunderstorm holding a jar? How does a Krytan farm lad like yourself know about asura, anyways? You ever even met one?"

"The telescope parts are asura-made, given to me by my sist—my brother the sailor. And I have something else, too." Ffeldy retrieved one of the other pouches, the green one, and ripped it open. He dug around in the beans with his fingers and drew out a tiny glass orb the size of his thumbnail. On one side of the orb was a small metallic nub. "They say the asura use these for light, but I don't know how to get the lightning in. I tried shuffling across a bearskin rug with slippers on, and got a nice jolt when I touched the door latch, but nothing happens when I touch this."

"You," said Domanick, "have wasted far too much time thinkin' about useless things. What exactly, uh, were you locked up in here for to begin with?"

"Running from the Seraph recruiters. I'm a conscientious objector."

"Of course you are, lad. Of course you are."

"Here. The glass bauble. Let me hold it for a minute," said Atalanta. Ffeldy handed it to her, and she pinched the metal nub with her thumb and index finger. With a flash, the room lit up so bright that Ffeldy though the roof of the cell had blown off to let in a strong mid-day sun.

"Well now, that certainly is an improvement," said Domanick slowly.

"I'm barely using any power at all," said Atalanta. "Remarkable. I'd heard of asuran accomplishments, but chalked them up as exaggerated myth. They and the charr, as I recall, practice something called "science," which I understand to be a magic rooted in electrical matter. However," she added in a surly tone, "I think I was happier _not_ being able to see every scar and streak of dirt on your faces. You two look like the lowest of rabble."

"We _are_ the lowest of rabble." Domanick had found an old candle holder and was scraping out bits of old tallow candle to chew. "Ffeldy here is country draft dodger and I'm a petty thief caught with stolen potatoes up my shirt. Instead of prison, I volunteered to join the Seraph, see the world, kill things an' all that. What about you, Atty? You haven't mentioned your own common crime."

"That," said Atalanta, "is because I have committed no crime. The misunderstanding will be realized in the morning. The lieutenant is always most gracious. Until then, you'd be best served to not annoy me, lest you end up with a powerful enemy instead of an ally. Shall I dim the light a bit? That's better. Though I suppose I'll be stuck holding this thing for the rest of the evening. Goddess, I am starved through. It's a shame about those beans. A hot supper would have been ample repayment."

Ffeldy, meanwhile, scooted toward the glass bulb in Atty's outstretched hand and knelt before it, studying the way the coil of wire inside glowed like one of the goddess Lyssa's fiery hairs. When he touched the glass, it was so hot he cried out and stuck his finger in his mouth.

"By the Six, Atty, how do you stand it?"

"I'm an elementalist. Heat, cold and wet don't bother me much."

"The bulb's construction is most curious," said Ffeldy, still sucking his finger. "Lighting appears to like metal, it only flows along the metal strand, an' I suppose through the copper nub, but not the glass. Though it's hot as Balthazar's ba—uh, fingers. You said the water pot was copper? I wonder if we couldn't heat the water the same as the glass, with the lightning.

"And burn down the building," growled Domanick. "And ourselves by association, seeing how the door is bolted from without."

"You _would_ burn down the building if you were as good an elementalist as you are a thief," said Atalanta. "But I have control over these things. Pass me the kettle, Dom, let's have a go."

An hour later they were taking turns eating bean soup out of the pot, passing a wooden ladle back and forth. Once he realized that they would not burn to their deaths by electricity, Domanick became so heartened that he whipped out a potato, an onion, a wafer of unidentifiable dried meat, a vial of Ascalonian seasoning, and even a carrot from nowhere to add to the broth.

"I get why you didn't want to eat a raw potato and even, maybe that dried…protein paste," said Atalanta. "But why hold on to the carrot?"

"There was only one," said Domanick. "I didn't want you ta hear me crunching, as then I'd have to share or be electricutified."

"I wonder why the Seraph didn't confiscate all this," added Ffeldy. "They took my haversack, everything but the beans."

"Oh, they _thought_ they confiscated my rations," Domanick said with a grin, "but you don't confiscate from a thief unless he lets you. And unless you strip-search him first."

Atalanta and Ffeldy exchanged a glance. Ffeldy tried to shove the ladle into Atty's hands, but when she zapped him with a small electric shock he thrust the ladle at Domanick instead.

"Oh, you two," said the thief, then laughed. "You already ate most of it without complaint when you didn't know the particulars. Doesn't heat cook out the evil spirits? What'r you so anxious about?" He slurped loudly from the ladle. "Ah well, so much the better for me. A thief gets what he wants. Doesn't even have to steal it sometimes, it gets handed right to 'im." And he raised the ladle in salute.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

_Queen Jennah was home when you left / You're right_

_Oh Jennah was home when you left / Right!_

_And Logan was here to my left / to fight_

_Oh Logan was here to my left / he left!_

_He left? [beat] You're right._

_He left. / You're right. _

_He left [beat] double-time! / Right? _

_He left. / You're right!_

_~ Seraph call-and-answer marching cadence (currently banned on pain of thumbscrews)_

The next morning at dawn, Seraph guards roused Ffeldy, Atty and Dom with a sharp rapping on the door.

"Up, up you lot. Rise and shine in the name of the Queen! Today's a big day for ya. At attention now!"

Ffeldy clambered unsteadily to his feet, convinced the centaurs must have invaded to have caused such racket. He and Domanick, despite both vowing and attempting to stay awake all night swapping bawdy jokes and tales—in whispers after Atty threatened to turn their mouths to stone—had fallen asleep, each half on, half off the thin straw-filled pallet. Atty had distanced herself and made a nest out of her thick, green cloak, which, as the Seraph clomped up and down the hall, she now shook free of dirt and tossed over her shoulders.

The cell door swung open, and a row of Seraph in impeccable armor awaited them in the corridor. The sergeant from the previous evening stood front and center, holding two coils of rope.

"Von Ffeldy and Domanick Garret. Please step forward an' hold out your hands."

Ffeldy and Domanick exchanged a nervous glance, and stepped forward together. One of the guards bound Ffeldy's wrists. He winced when the rope slid over the red patches of skin that had rubbed raw on yesterday's march, and tried to tell himself today would be better because at least his hands were tied in front this time, not behind his back.

"What about her?" whimpered Domanick as the guard tightened his cords. "Aren't men and women equal in the eyes of the law? Is it 'cause she'll singe right through yer rope that you don't bind her, too? A metal cable might do, just sayin'."

"Quiet, you," growled the Seraph sergeant. She towered over Ffeldy, who wasn't exactly short himself, and her muscular arms, what he could see of them, seemed the width of Ffeldy's calves. When she flicked her finger, her guards roughly dragged Ffeldy and Domanick from the cell and shoved them down the corridor, taking care to bump the captive's heads on every wall and door-frame. Atalanta followed along behind, serene and unfettered.

When Ffeldy's head stopped spinning from being knocked around, he found himself standing in ankle-deep muck in a courtyard before a Seraph officer in an intricate set of armor that seemed to have been constructed of bits of an exploded dragon that someone had dipped in silver and soldered together.

"Good morning, delinquents," said the officer.

"Show some respect," hissed the sergeant, thwacking Ffeldy and Domanick over their heads with a thick vellum scroll. "Kneel."

Ffeldy staggered forward from the blow. He bowed his head and dropped to his knees in the muck, which soaked through his leggings, leaving them clammy and cold. From the corner of his eye he saw Domanick do the same. But when he managed to scan the courtyard for Atty without the sergeant noticing, the elementalist had vanished. Maybe she had transformed into a mist and escaped—he'd heard good eles could do that. Did that mean she'd return to rescue two dirty vagabonds? Yes, Ffeldy tried to tell himself, even though every last whisper in his brain told him otherwise.

The sergeant faced the officer and stood at attention. "Lieutenant Gregoire, two prisoners, having engaged in illegal acts according to Krytan law, have been captured, accounted for, and await your gracious inspection."

"Thank you, Sergeant Delaqua. Please read the charges."

Delaqua unrolled the scroll and cleared her throat. "One Domanick Garret, accused of fourteen counts of larceny, apprehended at the Wallwatcher camp near barrels of the Queen's stores, having been found with numerous stolen wares upon his person…" The sergeant droned on in an officious voice, giving a too-thorough account with an unnecessary level of detail. A few of the Seraph guards snickered at the part when a Wallwatcher corporal, suspecting the thief, had noticed a tell-tale potato working its way down one of Domanick's trouser legs.

"Yes, I get the gist" interrupted Lieutenant Gregoire. "What of the young lad?"

"One Von Ffeldy, accused of draft avoidance and evasion, having failed, upon reaching legal age, to report to the Seraph recruiting sergeant in Claypool…"

Ffeldy's ears burned as he listened to the account of his transgressions and, worse, when the Seraph all laughed at his shameful showing in the moa shed.

Meanwhile, the lieutenant had drawn his sword. He placed the point under Ffeldy's chin and tilted it up so that Ffeldy was forced to meet his eyes. Gregoire's face was grim, his eyes dark under thick brows crisscrossed with battle scars.

"And why do you hate your queen so?" said the lieutenant in a low voice for only Ffeldy to hear. "What has fair Kryta done to you, that you would abandon her to dragons, and undead, and other foul threats?"

"Sir, I never meant to offend Queen Jennah. I would serve her in a different way—"

"You would save your own skin by letting others die in your place." Lieutenant Gregoire spat. "I know your kind."

"Others have died already, Sir. My dad and brothers. My ma runs the farm herself—" Ffeldy could feel the tears sliding down his cheeks.

"So you choose to abandon your own mother to the dragons, undead, and foul threats. Ungrateful, stupid lad. You must cut the apron strings and leave her either way, either with honor or with great shame."

"Lieutenant Gregoire? Sir?" Sergeant Delaqua had finished reading the charges and rolled the vellum back into a tight scroll. "What disciplinary measures would you have us take against the accused?"

The lieutenant took a step back, sword still in hand, and said in a loud voice for the entire Fort Salma to hear, "I pronounce both defendants guilty as charged. For fourteen counts of larceny of the Queen's stores I hereby sentence Domanick Garret of Nebo Terrace to the stocks, and for no fewer than fourteen rotten tomatoes to be thrown at his head. Thereafter he shall serve the Queen as a Seraph recruit for five years, in lieu of prison."

Two guards advanced, lifted Domanick by the elbows, and hauled him bodily away. The thief's dragging heels left two parallel lines in the mud.

"And for the avoidance and evasion of required military service…" continued Gregoire.

Ffeldy's tongue plastered itself to the roof of his mouth.

"…I hereby sentence Von Ffeldy to kiss the blade of this sword and swear allegiance to Queen and Kryta. Furthermore, he shall not rise until he has kissed the weapon—or hand—of every good Krytan citizen in Fort Salma, and sworn allegiance anew each time. Thereafter he shall serve the Queen as a Seraph recruit for the rest of his natural life, in lieu of death on the gibbet."

Ffeldy's vision went black, as if someone had snuffed out a candle. When he came to, he was on his hands and knees. The tip of the lieutenant's sword floated in front of his nose. Ffeldy closed his eyes and pressed his lips to the flat of the blade.

"Repeat after me," said the lieutenant. "I pledge my life to Queen and Kryta, until my death, so help me Six."

"I pledge my life to—to Queen and Kryta. Until—until my death. So help me Six."

The lieutenant sheathed his blade with a _shing_. "So help you," he murmured, then turned away on his heel.

Sergeant Delaqua stepped forward and lowered her blade for Ffeldy to kiss.

"I pledge my life to Queen and Kryta. Until my death, so help me Six."

Delaqua whacked him again on the head with her vellum scroll. "Say it like you mean it," she snarled, and stepped aside to oversee the rest of his punishment.

The Seraph guards filed past, one by one, then the sentries and archers stationed on the fort's walls, the quartermaster, the armorer, the cook, the various merchants. Even a handful of passing travelers and mercenaries were rounded up and sent to the courtyard to receive Ffeldy's oath of allegiance. Their boots trod uncomfortably before him, their hands and blades reluctantly offered under Delaqua's potent gaze.

"I pledge my life to Queen and Kryta, until my death, so help me Six!"

At last all the citizens and passers-by had gone, and one last pair of boots—tall, heeled, flame-colored and feminine—stood before Ffeldy. He hadn't been able to look anyone in the eye out of shame throughout his ordeal, and before this fashionable stranger he felt even more wretched. The stranger removed her glove and offered a hand, dark as caramel.

Ffeldy hesitated, his head spinning with some strange déjà vu, and he leaned towards the hand. As his lips met the fingers a loud crack filled his ears, and a white flash nearly blinded him. His mouth stung and for a moment he thought he'd been on the receiving end of Delaqua's powerful backhand.

"Gotcha," said a familiar voice. Ffeldy raised his eyes. Atalanta, decked not in her drab prison garb but in a gauzy, flame-colored outfit, winked at him and laughed.

"Atty!"

This time Sergeant Delaqua did deliver Ffeldy a smart cuff. "Is that how you address the Hero of Shaemoor, you cur?"

Atalanta held out her hand again, and Ffeldy instinctively recoiled. "Pledge your allegiance, _cur_," she said, but Ffeldy could hear the humor in her voice. This time her hand was warm and soft against his mouth, and not quite so electric.

"I pledge my life to Queen and Kryta until my death, so help me Six!" The words came easily to him now, and yet rang heavily in his ears. He spoke, but still couldn't bring himself to believe. He was a coward, and a fraud.

"Disciplinary measures are now complete," pronounced Delaqua. "Von Ffeldy, you may rise."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

_Flame!_

_The girl dressed in flame!_

_When centaurs invaded and put us to the sword,_

_And no one could help us, not magistrate nor lord,_

_At'lanta sent them packing, putting them—and us—to shame:_

_The Hero of Shaemoor, the girl wielding flame!_

_~excerpt from Shaemoor Inn's most frequently requested ballad _

The midmorning sun had cleared the battlements by the time Domanick and Ffeldy were allowed to use water from a dolyak trough to rinse the worst of the mud, grime, or in Domanick's case tomato juice, from their faces and clothes. The Seraph retied their hands, then linked the men together with an arm's length of rope. Sergeant Delaqua at last deemed them fit for travel and sent for the lieutenant, whom she said would see them off. Ffeldy was surprised to see Atalanta reappear with Lieutenant Gregoire. As the Hero of Shaemoor, she should have had more important things to do.

"Might I inquire," Atalanta asked Gregoire, "where the two scoundrels are being taken?"

"To Divinity's Reach, my lady. The Seraph Chief of Recruits will process them, and see that they are turned into more…_useful_ members of society."

"What a coincidence," said Atty. "I, too, am traveling to Divinity's Reach to report back to Captain Thackeray. His most recent notion was to have me infiltrate a den of bandits by disguising myself. I suppose it worked a little too well. The Seraph raided the venue and—as I understand it, Captain Thackeray, being busy with bigger Krytan affairs, forgot to tell them that I was not an actual bandit myself. Luckily, I was able to count on your own gracious understanding this morning."

"Sergeant Delaqua says her sister Marjory has only good things to say about you, my lady." Lieutenant Gregoire halted a few paces from the prisoners, but only Atalanta held his full attention. He had tucked his helmet under one arm, and his fingers played with the face-shield, absently clicking it up and down. "On behalf of all Seraph," he said, "I apologize one hundred times for such an oversight. To think that the Hero of Shaemoor had to spend the night locked with a pair of ruffians in a cell. How can such a thing be repaid?"

"Please," said Atalanta, "think nothing of it. Two bandits are barely noticeable after dealing with an entire den of them."

"I am pleased to hear it," replied Gregoire, still flicking his fingers on his helmet. "I hadn't meant to ask you—I can barely form the words, I'm so mortified by what I'm about to request—but with recent centaur attacks I barely have enough sentries to guard these gates and…would you mind escorting the prisoners yourself to Divinity's Reach?"

"Escort the prisoners? I?" Atalanta's nonchalant tone slipped. It was the first time Ffeldy had noticed any lack of confidence in her demeanor. "With perhaps one Seraph guard to…hold the rope, or what have you?"

"I'm sure the Hero of Shaemoor has no need of any Seraph guards."

Atalanta thumped the butt of her plain wooden staff into the dirt in apparent agitation. "No, of course I need no accompaniment. And Captain Thackeray—"

"-would be most impressed by your initiative," said Gregoire. "Most impressed, indeed."

"Yes, lieutenant, I believe he would be."

"Very well, then. I release the prisoners into your capable hands." Gregoire thumped his chest in salute. Ffeldy and Domanick bowed to the lieutenant per Sergeant Delaqua's firm suggestion.

"Come, scoundrels," bawled Atty, her self-assure tone restored. "Let us report to the capital, Captain and Queen! Forward march!"

Ffeldy lurched forward when a zap of electricity stung his back. The rope attaching his wrists to Domanick's tightened, forcing the thief to stumble along behind him. They marched through the Fort Salma gate in single file with Ffeldy in the lead and Atalanta falling in behind.

"I bet it's an act," whispered Domanick. "She'll untie us once we round the bend and Delaqua can't see us anymore."

And so Ffeldy played the part of despondent prisoner—not a difficult act—but even after the fort had disappeared behind a bend, a dense swamp, and a number of hillocks, Atty still hadn't broken her act as warden.

"Atty," whispered Domanick, "the three of us had bonded last night. We're all common sufferers, don't you see? You can untie us, surely."

Atalanta's voice was as cold as a Shiverpeak winter. "I have a duty. I've been chosen for this. Nothing you can say can bend me from it. Nothing."

As the sun arced overhead, they labored up the side of a steep ridge out of the swamp. Far below, the stout, sharpened logs of a distant garrison looked like a child's twig fort, and beyond that, a lake glinted like colored glass. Throughout the trek Ffeldy found it difficult to empty his mind of fear. What would his new life be like as a Seraph? Could he really be a fighter? Was it too late for him to learn a few spells, or would he discover some untapped talent as an agile rouge scrapper?

_Thereafter he shall serve the Queen as a Seraph recruit for the rest of his natural life, in lieu of death on the gibbet._

Lieutenant Gregoire's words echoed in his mind. _Death on the gibbet._ He had committed a capital crime. The Seraph had every right to string him up on a post, but some strange fate had spared him. _For the rest of his natural life._ How much longer did he have left in his natural life, anyway? Months? Days? Stop, he told himself. Stop thinking about it. That way lies madness.

At some point Ffeldy noticed Domanick whistling a tune, a familiar, popular air he had heard back home in Claypool. Maybe music could distract him from those more troubling thoughts. Ffeldy focused on the tune, then joined in by humming. He knew the song had words, too, and tried to remember them.

"What is that?" demanded Atalanta, who still followed along behind. "Enough. Silence. I'll hear no more of it."

"The Hero of Shaemoor doesn't like her own song?" said Domanick in a wry voice. "Or are we that badly out of tune?"

Suddenly the words to the song came flooding back from some far corner of his memory, and Ffeldy belted out the verse:

_Now Atty saw the centaurs attackin'_

_And sent us frightened peasants to the inn._

_The sparks from her scepter started cracklin', _

_Her rank was Rabbit, but we knew she'd win._

_Even Seraph ran for cover but she still stood tall,_

_She cried, "Watch this giant earth elemental fall!"_

"I didn't actually say those words," insisted Atalanta. "It's all taken out of context. The Seraph never ran. I didn't either, but…they didn't exactly give me the chance. Really. It sounds so silly laid out that way in the song. I'm just surprised anyone remembers the words at all."

Now Domanick joined Ffledy for the next verse.

_Meanwhile the elemental was a'crawlin' from the ground,_

_With hands as big as windmill blades that knocked our armies down._

_With Logan off at Jennah's side, seems every fight's the same: _

_He sends us Shaemoor's Hero, the girl who wields the flame._

They held the last note until their voices and lungs gave out. A few shocked birds flapped away into the treetops.

"But Logan Thackeray _was_ there, fighting the elemental with me," said Atalanta. "Or at least, he provided some sort of healing magic. I don't understand why people make so much fun of him for—"

"Never actually fighting?" interjected Domanick. "Making other people do his work for him? Because he would never do something like, say, abandon Destiny's Edge because his lady love the Queen was in danger...ow! No lightning, Atty. Unfair."

"You are the vagabonds, both of you, and I am the hero. I'll decide when to use lightning, or fire, or stones. And criticizing Captain Thackeray will not be tolerated in my presence. Understood?"

Domanick said nothing. Ffeldy had no wish to get involved in a political discussion, either. He braced himself for any chain lightning that might arc off Domanick, but none came. Instead, a shadow seemed to fall over them, then a steady rain began to fall. Feldy pushed wet strands of hair from his eyes. Soon his clothes, and Domanick's, were soaked, but when he glanced over his shoulder, Atalanta's getup was as bright, gauzy, and dry as ever. He looked up. A rowboat-sized cloud hovered directly over his and Domanick's heads, drenching only the pair of them.

"My lady, please," Ffeldy groaned. "Haven't we been punished enough?"

"If I hear one more verse of that song, even a single note, I'm calling up a blizzard."

"Yes, my lady."

The rain slowed to a drizzle, and at last the warm sun filtered through the dissolving cloud. They continued their trek up the side of the mountain, followed a ridge west for a time, then dropped down into another, more narrow valley on the other side. Yet another near-vertical incline awaited them.

"Well Lyssa be praised," puffed Domanick between labored breaths on the second, even steeper ascent. "It's a good thing my hands aren't tied together, or this climbing business would be _really_ difficult. I might not be able to catch myself before plummeting off the edge. I imagine you'd hear me scream for a good four seconds, maybe five, before I hit bottom."

"I could tie them behind your back instead of in front if you'd like, thief," growled Atalanta.

That shut Domanick up for a while—until he did indeed stumble and would have fallen from the steep cliff face if Ffeldy, still attached to him by the rope, hadn't dropped backwards on his rear and jerked Domanick away from the ledge. They both sat huffing and exchanged a sympathetic glance. Atalanta eyed them warily, her arms crossed.

"I suppose," she said at last, "that we could take an underground shortcut I know of."

"Shortcut?" echoed Ffeldy.

Domanick added, "So, you've been holdin' out on us, Atty?"

"Holding out?" said Atalanta. "Of course not. It just didn't seem like a viable alternative until now."

"Not a 'viable alternative?'" Domanick nearly shouted. "An' I suppose this underground shortcut has fewer ledges where we can plunge to our deaths, or rock faces that might crumble out from under our hands."

"It has few, if any of those things, yes," admitted Atalanta.

"So why didn't we go that way to begin with?"

"Domanick, you focus only on what this alternate route does _not_ have, instead of what it _does_ have."

"What DOES it have, then?" asked Ffeldy.

Atalanta shrugged as if this were a trifling question. "Trolls," she said.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

_Shall I thee to thy rest now croon?_

_For thou shalt breathe thy last quite soon._

_It seems that thou were not immune_

_To my pistole,_

_Expiring troll._

_Have they thee hunted, these killjoys:_

_Mages, knights, hobbledehoys,_

_In steel plate, leather, silken turquoise_

_Camisoles,_

_Expiring troll?_

_~"Ode to an Expiring Troll" by the poet laureate of Divinity's Reach_

* * *

They double-backed and descended the ridge, then traveled up-valley until the escarpment on either side grew sheer, and the flat rock walls seemed to lean in toward each other. Soon they reached the end of the box canyon—the end, that is, but for a small, dark opening framed with timber like the entrance of a mine. A weather-beaten sign tacked to one side was scrawled with a brown substance that may have been dried blood: _Warning Trolls!_

"So this is where you untie us an' let Ffeldy and I fend for ourselves if need be," said Domanick, halting at the sign. "Right, Atty?" His face had turned the color of cold oatmeal.

"Untie you?" said Atalanta. "And risk Captain Thackeray's ire if—when—you try to run off and I'm forced to, well, 'maim' is such a negative word, but you get my meaning. I'd prefer to deliver the two of you whole."

"Atty, you're very…_sweet_. But what if—"

Atalanta silenced him with a wave of her hand. "If the circumstances require it, I can singe the ropes."

"Yes," said Domanick, "I'm sure you _can_. Doesn't mean you'll actually remember in the thick of the fight."

"Well, if Lyssa holds you in her favor, it won't come to that, will it? See, Ffeldy knows better than to complain."

In fact, Ffeldy's attention had been drawn by distant yellow-greenish lights that swayed deep within the dark, horizontal shaft. "What's that?" he asked.

"Glow worms," replied Atalanta, "as big as hounds. But if you don't bother them, they won't bother you. Come along, we definitely don't want to be here after dark."

"What difference does daylight make in a cave?" asked Domanick, but Atty pulled the rope attached to his and Ffeldy's hands, and they stumbled along after her, following the purple electric sparks that swarmed from her scepter like fiery gnats. She cast occasional flares to scare off bats or large spiders that ventured too close.

"Now is not the time to be curious," she insisted when Ffeldy stooped to probe some phosphorescent jelly. It oozed from the corpse of a glowworm that had been struck by one of Atty's misfired flare. "The cave opens up into a cavern the size of a cathedral, and it's not a safe place to linger. I'm going to extinguish my light now, since it might start to attract…things."

She tugged the rope. Ffeldy lurched along after her and the thief. His hands, he noticed, now glowed the faint green of glowworm ichor.

They advanced into the cavern in a single file—first Atty, who strode with confidence through the darkness ("because the earth and rock guide me underfoot," she'd claimed in a whisper). Next came Domanick who since entering the cave had clutched one of Atty's long silk sleeves because she wouldn't let him touch her shoulder. Ffeldy brought up the rear. He had reeled in the rope that linked him to the thief, and followed close enough that Domanick's pony tail swatted him the face. With Domanick wrenching on the rope, and protruding rocks tripping him at every step, Ffeldy couldn't keep his glowing hands tucked in his jerkin for long.

BOOM.

A sound like a slammed cell door rang through the cavern, echoing back and forth across a space that must have been far more vast than Ffeldy had imagined.

"We didn't just get locked in here, did we?" huffed Domanick between hyperventilations.

"Oh no," whispered Atalanta, serene as a frozen lake. "There are no doors here."

"Was that the troll?" Ffeldy tried not to let hysteria leach into his words. A feeling of dread seemed to settle on his shoulders, as if someone had just draped him in a chainmail curtain.

"You did read the sign outside. Or can't you read?"

"I…it said 'warning trolls.' There was no comma atwixt the words, an' I thought it was warning the trolls against us?" Ffeldy's attempt at humor did not lighten the situation.

"I think it's time for you to singe the rope, Atty." Domanick tugged at his bonds. The line attached to Ffeldy went taut, nearly jerking him off his feet.

"Don't be silly," said Atty. "Be still. As long as no one does anything stupid—strikes a light or screams to alert the troll of our presence—we'll be fine. Assuming the brute doesn't catch a whiff of the pair of you over its own stench. Unlikely but…not unheard of. Come along. Now may be a good a time to dash."

The rope tightened again as Domanick sprung forward. Ffeldy tried to follow but caught his toe on a block of stone. As he fell, time seemed to slow enough for him to repeat to himself a dozen times: _I will be as the kerch tree under an axe, I shall fall bravely in utter silence, I shall not alert the troll_…

The cave floor should have knocked the wind quietly from his lungs—at most he should have emitted a soft hiss—but instead, phosphorescent hands flailing, he cracked his elbow on a rock and for a moment saw goddess twins Ilya and Lyss dancing circles around his head. They screamed…or was that the sound of his own voice? And then a stone struck his head.

One of Atalanta's water spells blasted him back into consciousness.

"Atty," he mumbled, noticing the purple light on the tip of her staff. "My lady, put out the light."

"No need," she said coldly, "not when your ruckus and—what is that? Your glowing hands, of all things?—have given up our position. It's tossing rocks. Now get up and run!"

Ffeldy found that his bonds had been cut. He scrambled to his feet and ran a few paces in the direction Atty pointed, then stopped to look back. He couldn't see Domanick. Atty still stood, staff alight, facing the blackness.

"My lady! Atty!"

"Run, lad. I'm going to fight it."

"What you mean, Atty," came Domanick's voice from somewhere off in the gloom, "is that you're goin' to needle it a few times with some ice slivers and singe it with a few sparks 'afore you realize it's like fighting a lumbering boulder. Even the Hero of Shaemoor can't solo a champion troll. "

"I didn't say I was planning to solo it." Raising her lighted scepter in one hand, she pulled a dagger from her belt with the other and lobbed it in the direction of Domanick's voice, as if he were the target dummy at a festival knife-throwing booth. "Take this. But if you try to steal it, I'll freeze your fingers off."

Domanick stepped into the cone of Atty's light, holding the dagger he'd caught between his forefinger and thumb. Blood smeared the glinting blade. "Take back what you said about me earlier."

Another rock smashed into the ground nearby.

"Idiot. There's no time!"

"Take it back, Atty."

"May Balthazar take you! Oh, very well. You're…not a terrible thief."

"Atty! Say it."

She gave a loud sigh. "You're an excellent thief. Who is constantly in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Good enough. I'll stealth. Catch the troll by surprise. A blow to the heart may not kill him, but it might make a dent."

Ffeldy watched them argue, unsure of what to do. "Give me a weapon too," he pleaded over Atty and Dom's whispered battle plans. "Anything will do."

Their faces both turned towards him. "Run!" they hissed.

Just then, a huge club made of an entire full-grown tree slammed into the ground, scattering the would-be fighters. Atty's lightning threaded along the ceiling of the cave, brightening the vast cavern. There stood the cave troll, a scaly, knuckle-dragging creature as tall as a Seraph watchtower.

Ffeldy, who had ducked behind a pile of rubble, could make out what looked like gleaming white sticks on the ground nearby. Bones. They lay scattered about like a morbid human puzzle, along with scraps of armor, a rusty shield and badly corroded sword. Ffeldy armed himself and ran in the direction of the troll. He thought he heard screams—Atalanta and Domanick were indeed screaming at him to not kill himself on his first combat blow—but the voices distorted in his brain, and turned into meaningless noise, like blasts of a hunting horn.

Ffeldy managed to dodge the troll's club and swung his rusty sword at the creature's exposed leg. Instead of piercing its hide, the blade bounced off with a clatter.

"You'll need to put a lot more muscle behind that sword!" shouted Domanick unhelpfully as he somersaulted past, carving figure eights with Atty's stiletto like a traditional Kessex dancer gone psychotic.

Ffeldy realized how badly he'd chosen his current position when the troll's club swung at him from one side, while the troll's rock-like fist swung in from the other.

"Dodge, Ffeldy!" shouted Atty. Ffeldy obeyed, but not fast enough. The troll's fist clipped his shoulder and dropped him to one knee. He hoisted his shield. The club ricocheted off its convex surface, which surprised Ffeldy by not shattering. The force sent him sliding along on his knees. Hs leggings tore, but he remained more or less alive. So far.

"Your sword!" shouted Domanick, and kicked the ancient blade in Ffeldy's direction. He hadn't even realized he'd dropped it. "Behind you! Parry!"

Ffeldy scrambled for the sword and held it in front of his face just as the club swung at his head. This time the blade _did_ shatter, and tiny slivers of metal stung his face and arms. He managed to roll away from the club, barely.

"Stand back," bellowed Atalanta. "I'm going to hit it with everything I've got."

Ffeldy raised his shield. A thick rope of lightning burst from Atty's staff, the brightest Ffeldy had seen her wield yet.

"I shall stop its heart!" she cried. The lightning flicked like the tail of a bullwhip, but the troll proved to be more nimble than expected, and stepped neatly aside. The electric whiptail lashed past the troll towards Ffeldy instead. It struck his shield in an explosion of purple sparks. Ffeldy felt a million tiny insects crawling over his skin. They seemed to sear him with pin-prick legs. His scalp grew warm and itchy, the sensation of his hair standing on end. Cords of electricity writhed over the shield like snakes. If he didn't drop the shield, his own heart would stop.

From the corner of his eye, the troll's club swung back. Ffeldy planted his feet and swung the shield over his head. He thought he heard Atty's voice shouting at him not to toss away his last means of protection. Ffeldy launched the shield anyway. It sailed at the troll, struck it once on the head, then reversed course and struck it a second time from behind. It landed not-so-gently in Ffeldy's hands. Each time the shield had struck, purple lightning snakes had wriggled over the troll's skin. Now the troll stood rooted. Ffeldy's ears buzzed, although the shield no longer crackled. It was just an old sheet of metal in his hands.

Ffeldy tried to run, but either his nerves were fried, or perhaps the troll had injured him worse than he'd thought. As he fell forward on his hands and knees, Domanick grabbed one of his arms, and Atty the other. Domanick must have deployed one of his thief tricks because when the troll woke from its stupor, it lumbered past them, head swinging in all directions, but did not see them.

"By the Six," said Atalanta, crouching by Ffeldy's side. "I've never seen such terrible swordplay in my life." She lay a hand on his chest. She didn't shock him for once, but her touch sent a slow tingle through him. The pain in his legs and head lessened, just a bit.

"Your face looks like somethin' a dog chewed on and spat out again," added Domanick. "At least yer tough. Suicidal, but tough." He glanced over his shoulder. "Troll up! No time for healing, Atty. Let's go!"

Atalanta quenched her light source, and all went black. Ffeldy tried to stand but couldn't find the strength, and he felt his companions drag him away from the _thump thump thumping_ of the troll loping behind them in pursuit. Suddenly his forehead bonked into a wall. Beside him, Atty and Dom grunted and cursed. Ffeldy sank down between them and tried not to think about how many bones he might have broken.

"There should be a door here," hissed Atalanta.

"Should be? What mean you now, Ele?"

"It's here, just not…here. I'll strike a light, and we'll see it."

Domanick's voice rose to a hysterical falsetto. "Light? The troll'l see us."

"Well he just _heard_ you!" This time a melon-sized fireball rose from the top of Atalanta's staff.

The troll towered over them, a huge boulder in its claws. Atty's light cast every bump on its scaly skin into harsh relief.

"Leave 'im!" Domanick grabbed Atalanta's hand, and as if by some magic, they both disappeared from his sight. The fireball still hovered, but sputtered and shrank like a burned-out candle. Ffeldy sprawled on his back, unable to move. He watched the troll raise the rock over its head. Now he was the only target.

_Dwayna save me_.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

_We asura have a burden_

_Since from the Depths we came,_

_To bring knowledge to the Bookah_

_Though it's such a losing game._

_Our Alchemic Accelerants _

_Have sown the seeds of science._

_Our Chromatic Converters_

_Helped form a new Alliance._

_The charr have their crude engines_

_Just archaically advanced,_

_And don't tech-talk with sylvari_

_'Cause they're just a bunch of plants, _

_And the norn stand there all cross-eyed _

_While the humans run away—_

_We'd fight the dragons on our own_

_If they'd stay out of the way._

_~ parody by some Bookah* that gained unaccountable and unprecedented popularity in Rata Sum. A properly retabulated musical version is forthcoming._

_*Obviously, since the iambic pedometer fails to squadulously resonate to the harmonic mesotones._

* * *

Did Dwayna hear him? For suddenly crackling luminous spells and glowing auras illuminated the cavern as a hoard of brightly bedecked, mismatched fighters stampeded over and around where Ffeldy lay. A massive feline paw trod on his fingers, and an even larger norn boot caught him in the gut.

"Sorry," said a deep, gruff voice. "Gotta take my shot at the troll. That's what you get for starting early."

"Help…me…" gasped Ffeldy, but the speaker had moved on in the rush. Ffeldy closed his eyes, partly to protect them from dust and gravel kicked up by the advancing army, partly because his still-swollen eye hurt to hold open, but mostly so he didn't accidentally look up someone's skirt or tunic and get an eye-full of what they were—or were not—wearing underneath.

"Is this one sentient? Or dead?" said a penetrating, nasally voice. "Speak up, or you'll be assigned an 'expectant' triage tag."

"Uh…expectant?"

"As in expectant fatality, medical aid no longer required. Well? Are you sentient? Conscious? You'll need give it a bit more effort if you don't want to be assigned the level between 'algae' and 'sea-sponge' according to Carjj's Optimal Reconnaissance of Physical State Evidence Scale."

"Are you…are you speaking in words?" Ffeldy tried to open his eyes, but the one was swollen nearly shut, and the other had teared up from the grit. Someone poured a scorching liquid over his face that fizzed in his eyes, nose, and mouth. He gagged and spluttered, but he found he could see again.

A diminutive being leaned over him, shaking out the last drops of some elixir from an up-turned glass flask. It—she?—pulled a pair of goggles up onto her forehead, revealing huge green eyes. "Assuredly," she said, grimacing rows of tiny, pointed teeth. "Your brain receptors must have scrambled. Typical fault of human brains, leaking interstitial fluids, squashed fleshy gray matter and so on. Here, bite on this roll of cotton. You might feel some tingling…"

She uncorked a second flask and poured it over his legs. Ffeldy screamed into the cotton she'd stuffed into his mouth, but it came out as a muffled squeak. The elixir effervesced down into his skin, burning like molten lead. The heat faded, and he found he could move again. He sat up, rubbed his head, and pulled the cotton from his mouth.

"Thank you," Ffeldy managed.

"Ah, a sign of gratitude. I shall upgrade Subject # 342 to 'quaggan' level on the CORPSE Scale," she said. "With luck, the elixir will permeate your neural receptors in the next half hour, and you'll be your sub-average human self by tomorrow."

"Are you…are you asura?"

"Subject # 342 appears to be asking questions with obvious answers. I shall be forced to downgrade him to 'hermit crab' level. Human, don't waste your oxygen. The troll is also still sentient and I notice you are down a useable weapon. Why don't you take this? It's just one more mechanism I don't have to carry, thank the Eternal Alchemy."

"Thank you, uh…"

"Call me Fieuzz. Not my real name, but my parents were pioneers in metalinguistics, and my real name exists on an aural plane unattainable by human ears, never mind vocal cords. Genius first class, college of Dynamics. Here, hold this." She placed an odd, crystalline pistol in his hands and wrapped his fingers around it. "Take aim, then just trip this lever with your finger. It's a variant of the standard Phalange-Worked Necroblastic Ruinator."

"You mean it's a gun."

"A crude term, but as you will, young human." Fieuzz shouldered a long brass rifle attached to her backpack by a hose. "I was going to explain more, but I'll go against my better instincts and let you try to figure it out yourself. Now take a shot if you can, or you won't get a share of the reward."

"Reward?" asked Ffeldy as he scrambled to his feet, but his little benefactor disappeared in the crush of troll-fighting mercenaries. He retrieved his shield, which lay nearby, and loped after them.

The troll still stood amid the swarm of assailants. It had dropped its club and now swung wildly with both rock-like fists, perhaps realizing at last in its pebble-sized brain that it had no chance. Ffeldy almost felt sorry for it, but he leveled the pistol at the troll's head, squeezed the trigger of the gun—Phalange-Worked Necroblastic Ruinator—and didn't ease his grip until a charr tapped him on the shoulder with a ground-down claw and told him to relax, the troll had been dead for nearly a minute already.

The fifty-odd victors cheered and broke into various dances, then huddled around something Ffeldy recognized as a wooden chest. He joined them and, after realizing that standing patiently in a queue would not get him to the front, elbowed his way to where a no-nonsense-looking norn with skulls mounted on his shoulders was doling items out, ensuring all participants got a fair share. The norn thrust into his hands a heavy silk pouch, a gaudy-looking war hammer Ffeldy could barely lift, and a pair of reinforced leather breeches with two red stripes down the outside seams. It was finest piece of clothing Ffeldy had ever laid hands on.

As he contemplated finding a secluded place to try them on, Domanick sauntered up.

"Nice threads," said Domanick in his silky voice now free of hysterics. His hair had fallen from its ponytail and hung loose around his shoulders.

Atalanta, too, had reappeared from the crowd. "'Tis a shame you aren't allowed to wear them, young man."

"Not allowed?" Ffeldy pressed the breeches to his chest. "But I won them. I mean, it doesn't make sense that a troll would have these kinds of treasures, but since he did, I'm going to keep 'em."

"I'll excuse you for not having the same…civilized upbringing as I," said Atalanta. "But you must know that Krytan castes and ranks are very strict. A country lad who nearly stabs himself on every sword he wields does not wear clothing quite that heroic."

Ffeldy caught Domanick's eye.

"Don't look to me for support. Milady is as right as a Seraph with a peg left leg. I'll buy them off you, though, give you deal you can't get this side of the Shiverpeaks."

"Wait," growled Ffeldy. "The pair of you left me to die on a field of battle, an' the first thing you want to ask me when you find me again is if my winnings are for sale? Well they aren't."

Atalanta shouldered her staff and pushed her hair from her eyes. "Firstly, we could have done nothing for you if we had both been downed, too—"

"But you never came back neither, did you?"

"Secondly," continued Atty, "you are now the property of the Queen, and have as much license to personal property as you do to reign in her stead. No, don't look that way. You may keep your winnings for now, I shan't touch them. All shall be resolved in Divinity's Reach."

"And anyway," said Domanick with a wink, "all that stuff about us 'abandoning' you, it's worked itself out like an Ascalon cat-fight now, hasn't it? Mr. Conscientious Objector."

"Lyin' on the ground, looking up at a creature that won't think once afore it smashes your brains in...preservation of the self isn't the same as that jingoistic Seraph stuff," said Ffeldy without loosening his grip on his loot. "Who are all these other people—creatures—anyway?" he asked at length.

"Trophy hunters, basically," said Domanick. "They scour Tyria together for beasts that pay big. I run with 'em sometimes myself. If you time it right, you can make good coin."

Atalanta sighed. "What a sad way to live one's life," she said. "I could never partake." But Ffeldy noticed a new gem-encrusted scepter tucked in her belt.

"Ah, there you are, young human," said a familiar high-pitched voice. "You still respire! Count me as astounded yet pleased. You must remind me later to thank you for aiding, abetting, and otherwise furthering my experiments. But first, come. I must borrow you for a svedberg."

Ffeldy glanced down. The last time he'd seen Fieuzz—and he hadn't seen her very well—she'd been leaning over him with her scorching elixirs. Now that he was standing, the top of her faintly tiger-striped head barely reached his chest. She wore sleek gauntlets and shoulder armor made of metal fused with something like glass. An intricate geometric-patterned tunic covered the rest of her. Purple light glowed from points on her chest and shoulders. Ffeldy wondered if the light was made by those little glass baubles.

"Svedberg?" asked Ffeldy. It sounded like a nornish name. "Who? Is he the one who handed out the loot? I thought I was allowed to take it. I don't hafta give it back, do I?"

The asura stared up at him, unblinking. "A svedberg," she said slowly, annunciating each syllable, "is a measurement of time. A very short measurement used to calculate particle sedimentation. One hundred femtoseconds, or ten to the negative thirteenth power seconds, to be exact."

"It's…not that big norn's name then?"

"It was meant as a semi-humorous exaggeration, but I see my words have flown so far beyond your mental capacities that they may well soar through the void of space and find intelligent life long before your species evolves far enough along for your distant progeny to ever laugh."

"No, no." Ffeldy put on a smile. "It's quite funny. Now that you've explained it."

"Don't patronize me, young human. I only wish to extricate you from your friends so that I may conduct a brief…interview."

"So who's the goblin, Ffeldy?" asked Domanick loudly. "Couldn't you get yourself no Krytan lass?" If the thief's object had been to attract the attention of every troll-killer in a hundred yard radius, he succeeded admirably. Faces of every size, hue, and scar-count turned in his direction.

Ffeldy glared at Dom. "Fieuzz is a friend. An' since she bothered to risk life an' limb to revive me, she's a better friend than you. We're going to go talk over there." He gripped the handle of his new, ludicrously heavy war hammer and dragged it across the floor. "An' you can tell Atty to hold on for a svedberg 'afore she binds my hands again and drags me away like a trussed moa."

Ffeldy and Fieuzz repaired to the far side of the cavern.

"I'm sorry about Domanick," began Ffeldy, but Fieuzz waved him off.

"I don't take insults from Bookahs to heart. Those who use crude words to compensate for inferior brainpower strike me as rather…sad individuals. Your own comeback, however, contained a modicum of wit. Nicely parried."

"Thanks. Better than my sword parry, anyway."

"Swords. How barbarous," she said. "That reminds me. The Phalange-Worked Necroblastic Ruinator. You pitched it away at the beginning of the fight, didn't you?"

"Oh no," Ffeldy said, and drew the pistol from his belt. "I promised to give it back, and here it is. Thank you."

"Wait wait wait," shrilled the asura. "You mean to say that the Phalange-Worked Necroblastic Ruinator is present and intact?"

"Umm…well, it's right here, isn't it? I'm not really an expert so maybe I can't see…" Ffeldy tried to hand it to Fieuzz, but she leaped backwards. Then she pulled a pair of metal tongs from her pack, swallowed loudly, and plucked the pistol from Ffeldy's outstretched hands.

"Are you certain that you fired this?" she asked dubiously. "You are required to pull this spring-loaded triggering mechanism here with your index finger—"

"I know how a gun works."

"Well," said the asura with a huff, "believe me, living on a continent inhabited mostly by Bookahs, I've learned to assume that anyone who isn't a card carrying genius has about as much neuron activity as a sparkfly toadstool, and just hope that in every seventieth case I'm proven wrong." Still gripping with the tongs, she rotated the pistol slowly and examined it through a small handheld lens. "Yes, yes, there does seem to be some residual sparking, and I can feel noticeable buzzing activity traveling along the pinchers. But it does not appear to have combusted, even partially, as has been so often the case as of late."

"So it usually gets too hot?" Ffeldy noticed an uncomfortable churning of his stomach acids and glanced at where Atty and Dom were busy haggling with a traveling Black Lion merchant who must have smelled the opportunity for profit from fifty leagues away and come running. Those two had abandoned him once. Surely they'd do it again.

"In actuality," said Fieuzz, "usually the prototype explodes. Massive fireball. Glass shrapnel impossible to extricate from resulting lesions. You're a very fortunate young human!"

"Fortunate? _You_ gave this…this deathtrap to _me_. Why? Why would you do that?"

"Science must go forward. _I_ can't very well pull the trigger myself now, can I? Who would be left to make the adjustments? A massive intellect, years of university, gone in an instant. Senseless waste." She began narrating to herself in a flat, academic tone. "PWNR has been fired and is intact. Experimental Test Subject 342 is "quaggan level" according to CORPSES. No conflagration witnessed, ETS 342 not operating on full brainpower, growing indignant but not yet violent. I shall attempt a full palpation, administering tranquilizers as needed…"

"So when the test subject is an ignorant human prisoner an' sentenced to either death or a life of Seraph duty, then it's moral," interrupted Ffeldy. "Is that how ya see it?" He tried to brandish his war hammer, but couldn't lift the stone head higher than his knees.

"Hush, how can I dictate my observations with you babbling on like that? I was not aware of your status as a felon, but knowing it makes my job that much easier. Science requires change, and change requires suffering. I enjoy your suffering less than you do, but it must be done. Be proud of your sacrifice, ETS 342. Even you can help propel technological development forward. Even you."

At this point Ffeldy wanted nothing more than to rejoin his human acquaintances—no, his _friends, _by Grenth—near the Black Lion trader, and perhaps see if he could sell a few broken claws and a handful of gravel he'd somehow picked up during the battle. He decided to make his decision clear by moving his feet…and discovered too late that he could not. Some white, sticky substance held him in place by the soles of his shoes.

"…ETS 342 has made attempt to escape before palpation could commence; I have deployed the agglutinant bomb." She switched from her academic voice and addressed him directly. "ETS 342, I can't reach you up there, I need you down here. Kneel, please."

"What? No!"

"Then I'll be forced to make you. You may feel some tingling, ETS 342."

Something sharp pricked Ffeldy behind the knee. The loss of feeling in his legs was immediate, and they collapsed under him. Now his face was at the same level as hers.

"Fine," he said. "You win. But my name is Von Ffeldy. All this would be slightly less embarrassing if you'd stop callin' me a number."

"Your cooperation is much appreciated, ETS 342—Von. Or is it Ffeldy? Humans and their confounded double names. Experimental Test Subject 342 is much more concise and easy to remember. Normally I would defer your request, but I made the mistake of taking an elective in Inter-Species Relations during my penultimate year at university, which completely disrupted my natural inclinations."

"Just call me Ffeldy an' have done with it."

"Ffeldy, excellent." She replaced her protective goggles with a double-lensed magnifying monocle. Taking out a tiny light on the end of a small wand, she shone it twice into each of his eyes. "Oh, you humans with your proportionately miniscule heads." She smiled for a moment, as if caught off guard, revealing her saw-like teeth. "If I were the sentimental sort, a charr perhaps, I'd even say you were…adorable."

"Umm, thank you?"

"Now." Fieuzz pulled on a pair of gloves made from some stretchy material. "My experiment requires that I perform a palpation, and then you shall be released back into the wild. Don't be alarmed, it's completely normal and necessary, just inform me if you experience any crepitus. Right?"

Uhh…" Ffeldy was acutely aware that his face had grown hot, and probably bright red, too. "What exactly is a…palpation? And crepitus?"

Fieuzz gave a short, shrill laugh. "Your brain dove right into the gutter there, didn't it Ffedly? A perfectly normal symptom in humans. Some day your species may evolve to attain a higher echelon of thought, and then you shall be mercifully free of such distractions and preclusions. Until then, know that I do try to understand your unfortunate instinctual habits and shall work around them as best I can. Crepitus is the grating sound produced by friction between parts of fractured bone." She held out her gloved hands and slid them over Ffeldy's scalp, pausing every few inches to squeeze.

"What in the name of the Six Gods are you doing?" Ffeldy tried to shake her off.

"Be still, 342. Tranquilizers are horrendously expensive. I told you, I'm palpating."

"But you never told me what that is!"

Fieuzz had moved to the side and was now manually inspecting Ffeldy's neck and spine. "My ears!" she said. "I keep forgetting that you humans have lapses in higher vocabulary as well as in thought. I'm merely checking you over for signs of injury that the side-effects of the Phalange-Worked Necroblastic Ruinator may have inadvertently caused."

"You could have just asked me. I would have told you that I'm fine."

"Fine, Ffeldy? Fine? With that contused hematoma near your right eye? Those unevenly dilating pupils? You call that 'fine?'"

"Between a run-in with the Seraph yesterday, an' the cave troll just now, then you and your 'first aid,' I wonder if you could blame anything at all on that gun of yours. An' afore you ask, yes, the limp and the leg bruises an' bashed-up thumb are all troll-related."

"I see," said Fieuzz. "Well, what about this?" She gave a triumphant smirk and pressed her gloved finger to the tip of Ffeldy's nose."

"It's my nose. And it's fine."

"It is indeed your nose, and it is _not_ fine! I'm getting a reading of 54.6 gemmes, type 4 electric, off the end of it, and it's a well-known fact that a human nose is a reliable source of gemme reading, in the way your carotid artery is a reliable place to find your pulse."

"And is that…high?"

"High?" shrieked Fieuzz. "High, he asks? Why, a little snub-nose like you shouldn't register past 0.78 gemmes, type 4 electric. Did you happen to swallow a lightning bolt, perhaps?" To Fieuzz's credit, she did meanwhile apply a soothing salve to Ffeldy's black eye.

"Yes, actually. My elementalist friend over there missed a shot at the troll and blasted me—well, my shield—instead."

"Elementalist, you say? Electric attunement? Remarkable. This shield you mentioned. Did you wield it at the same time as the PWNR?"

"The same. It's on the ground over there with my gear. You can look at it if you want…"

But the asura didn't wait for his permission and was already hurrying over to study the shield with her pinchers and mono-scope. Ffeldy decided that his whatever-it-was inspection was over. Luckily the tranquilizer to his legs had begun to wear off. He hoisted himself up onto a rock and rubbed feeling back into his feet.

"So I guess I can write home an' tell my mother that I survived my first encounter with an asura?"

"Survived?" cried Fieuzz. "You, ETS 342, are the miracle I've been waiting for."

"I—what?"

"After 341 dismal failures, you are the first test subject to successfully wield the PWNR and—well, let me just say that your bruises are an immense improvement on the usual outcome. I think the electromagnetic properties of your rusty old shield here are the key I've been searching for. To put it bluntly, they saved your life. I've never seen anything like it. For how much silver would you be willing to part with it? A gold piece, perhaps? Two? A semi-permanent place on my krewe?"

"Please," said Ffeldy, backing away on his unsteady feet. "Take it. Keep it. And this war hammer, too. I'll accept no payment, just promise never to speak to me again."

Bundling his cash into his new trousers and abandoning the weapons, Ffeldy turned on his heel and ran over to where Atalanta was trying out some new shades of dye on her gauzy clothes.

"Milady," he said, and held his hands out in front of him.

"Oh, there you are Ffeldy. Tell me what you think. 'Copper penny' or 'papaya?' Is 'papaya' a little too red?"

"You look lovely, Atty. Either way. 'Papaya' brings out your eyes. Now bind my hands an' let's get out of here!"


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

_Melandru has Feasts, and Lyssa has Masques_

_Packing partiers in all the halls._

_If you want a good time, and it's me whom you ask,_

_I'll say, "Go to Balthazar's Balls!"_

_Have you ever seen one of Balthazar's Balls?_

_The Queen holds them twice a year._

_Their size and their splendor are marveled by all,_

_Though their fiery heat is severe._

_So come down, experience Balthazar's Balls,_

_They're held in Divinity's Reach._

_They fill up the palace from floors to the walls,_

_You can partake for two silvers each._

_'Pon ent'ring you'll see the great god's Greatsword_

_Raised in a mighty salute._

_A guest to the Balls will never be bored,_

_As they sway to the tune of the lute._

_Temar and Tegon will jump at the Balls,_

_(or dancers in costumes quite striking),_

_But the heat and the sweat produced by it all,_

_You may not find quite to your liking._

_One really must go to the Balls and have fun,_

_If ever one has half a chance,_

_Though gutterminds smirk, giggle, titter and pun,_

_Remember it's only a dance._

_~ Anonymously composed "barracks ballad" which Captain Logan Thackeray has attempted to ban; Queen Jennah, however, finds it quite droll. Additional verses vary from barracks to barracks, but are mostly too degenerate to reproduce here._

* * *

Ffeldy and Domanick, shackled together again, marched ahead of Atty toward the gates of Divinity's Reach.

"Dom," Ffeldy said at last after they had walked in silence for an hour or so. "What kind of mage wields the powers of alchemy an' the elements at once? And tosses about magickal gibberish that confounds the brain?"

"I think you hit yer brainpan five times too many, lad," said the thief. "Alchemy is the study o' chemicals an' such. No kind of magicks is needed to manipulate 'em. Just a much bigger brain than you or I possess."

"Speak for yourself, Domanick," interjected Atalanta. "But anyway, no self-respecting elementalist dabbles in the mundane arts." She cast a shower of droplets from her scepter, reflecting a momentary rainbow.

"Showoff," muttered Dom.

"Intuition and active practice of skills are far more reliable than the act of study. Attunements require one's entire childhood to develop. If I had wasted my tender years reading books and collecting butterflies, I'd be no more capable of blasting fire at my foes than you are, Ffeldy."

"I only collected butterflies 'cause we worked in the fields, an' it was something interesting to pass the time," said Ffeldy as his face grew hot. "Didn't kill 'em, just remembered how they looked and moved, and drew 'em later. I made paper models, but couldn't get them to fly as accurately as I'd a' liked."

Atalanta cocked her head at him. "Oh, well, I did not realize you hobbied as such, I just used butterflies as an example. If you had started magic early as I did, using a little wind spell perhaps, you could have made any object fly without worry of design."

"Butterflies make good target practice before knife fights," added Domanick, and ducked the pebbles Atty sent flying at his head. "An' the two a' you have got no humoristic sense at all."

Ffeldy sighed. "Now you've run me off the topic of my original question, as per usual. Is there a mundane way to meddle with the elements, using no magicks? To cast confusionary words of some non-arcane power?"

"Oh lad," laughed Domanick, "you had me goin' there for a moment. Confusionary words? Magick-less meddling? You speak of that asura you was talkin' to back in the cave. Aye?"

"Yes." Ffeldy looked at his feet, pretending to navigate a stretch of bumpy ground, but actually hiding from the embarrassment of his own ignorance. "Was she somehow able to channel chemicals, lightning and fire without any magic at all?"

"Aye," said Domanick, "an' she's no elementalist. She's in a class of her own, certainly. I can see yer interest, though you'd be foolish to seek a living like that. Best that you learn to use a great sword or daggers like a sane person and forget the whole thing."

"Well," said Atty. "A small few of that class have fatal enough reputations. I hear they can be decent assistants in a traveling party, and a few of them have risen to great infamy, but when it comes to heroics, the common people want magic and big swords, not them."

"Milady." Ffeldy dug in his heels, forcing the others to stop, too. "With due respect, you keep saying 'they.' Who are _they_? What are _they_?"

"Engineers," said Atalanta with another deep, defeated sigh. "They call them engineers."

At last the massive gates of Divinity's Reach, capital of Kryta, loomed above them in the growing darkness.

"Prepare yourselves, lads," said Atty as they approached a human-sized door cut into the bottom of the three-story high main gate. "We shall report to Captain Logan Thackeray himself in the main Seraph Headquarters. 'Tis a great honor for all of us, whether our hands are bound or not. But for the sake of our collective honor, please refrain from mentioning anything about the troll, or the fact that you ran unfettered for any length of time today."

"What will you pay us?" asked Domanick.

"Would a minor Rune of the Afflicted sway you, thief?"

"Two major Runes of the Afflicted. And engineer runes for Ffeldy here, as he seems half-way smitten by the class in more ways than one. Haha."

"Done," said Atty. "All shall be paid up tonight. "But don't look so lively. Drop your heads, shuffle, like you've been to visit Grenth and have returned. Yes, Ffeldy, I like the limp. A nice touch, how clever of you."

Apparently she hadn't noticed that Ffeldy had been limping all day.

The Seraph at the gate, in their gleaming silver armor and winged shields, scowled at the two prisoners as they trudged by, but straightened, saluted, and even smiled in Atalanta's direction.

"It's because she's barely got any clothes on," whispered Domanick so only Ffeldy could hear. "They say that clothing is a hindrance to the art of Magicks. The more powerful the sorceress, the more skin she shows."

"And what about sorcer_ers_? Isn't that a bit unfair?" asked Ffeldy, but a passing Seraph slapped a glove over his head to silence him.

They ascended a stone ramp wide enough that four dolyak carts could have traveled abreast. Various shops, vendors, and trainers seeking to take on gullible and overconfident apprentices lined the route, and the air smelled of a mélange of molasses, anisette and potato pasties. Both Ffeldy and Domanick's stomachs growled as Atty led them on without stopping.

From the corner of his eye, Ffeldy thought he saw a familiar diminutive, goggle-eyed asura munching something from a paper cone near a candied almond vendor cart. The hair on his arms rose at the memory of the PWNR. But when he glanced over his shoulder, the asura was gone.

They crossed into an enormous courtyard that, with its vast glass domed roof, was closer to a tropical greenhouse than a garden. The ground turned to spongy green moss beneath Ffeldy's feet. When he looked up, a massive celestial clock complete with spinning metal planets filled his view. Nearby, a tall, nearly circular arch stood, cordoned off with a rope.

"It looks like the asura gate to Lion's Arch has been closed," said Atty as she hurried them past. "The business travelers are going to be very angry. It's quite the expedition on foot. Ah, but here we are. Behold the palace. The Seraph Headquarters are just ahead through that door."

The reality of his situation sank in at last as Ffeldy crossed the threshold into the HQ. Here was the nerve center of all police and militia activity in Kryta, and soon he would be initiated into it himself whether he wanted to or not. As he was being frisked up against the wall in the antechamber, he caught a glimpse of a mosaic of parchments pasted to the stone walls. They were notices for wanted criminals and their respective bounties. One prominent poster in particular caught his eye, as it featured the long-eared, wide-eyed visage of a very familiar asura.

_WANTED in Rata Sum for reckless scientific practices, illegal experimentation on sentient creatures, money laundering, possible Inquest ties, misuse of constants of integration, arbitrarily jumping to conclusions about infinity, and various other crimes of physics. Engineer, answers to Fieuzz, College of Dynamics, certified genius. Current whereabouts unknown. Armed and dangerous. Asuran gates in Tyria have been closed until further notice. For Krytan sightings, please contact Seraph headquarters. REWARD: 10 gold._

Ffeldy barely had time to process this information before he, Domanick and Atty were hustled into a lofty chamber large enough to hold Balthazar's balls—dancers and servants alike. Cloth red and gold banners the size of ship's sails adorned the walls, though not enough to muffle the deafening echo of many pounding, armored feet.

A long, cluttered desk stretched nearly the full width of the chamber, and at it sat a powerfully-built man with long, dark hair.

"That man there," said Domanick under his breath, "is Captain Logan Thackeray himself. A regular lion, 'tis true, as he does his paperwork in full-plated armor. They say he tackles his in-box with the same gravitas as he would a field o' undead. An' never gets papercuts, neither."

"Announcing Lady Atalanta Fiero, the Hero of Shaemoor!" cried the herald at the door.

Atty and her fiery clothes commanded the attention of every Seraph in the room. Ffeldy was glad she seemed to know what to do, because he felt unfit himself for this polished, vaulted room. His brain spun out more unanswered questions. Why should he have an audience with the Captain alongside Atalanta, instead of being quietly shuffled off to the prison, or recruit barracks, or someplace more fittingly vulgar?

Atalanta bobbed a curtsey. After exchanging a grimace with Domanick, Ffeldy and the thief took the hint and bowed as low as was possible without losing balance.

"The Hero of Shaemoor returns!" boomed Logan, rising to his feet. "I have already heard how you vanquished that den of bandits, and a troll besides. And now, here you stand before me with bonus bound-up renegades to boot. Is there nothing that stands in your way, Hero?"

"Well, I—" began Atty, and Ffeldy heard an uncharacteristic quaver in her voice. "You are much too kind, sir. You gave me a quest, and I pursued it."

Logan had leaned back over the desk to add a few hasty signatures to the documents in front of him, as if this interruption of his work had not come at a good moment. However, he smiled—a bit thinly, thought Ffeldy—and crooked his finger at one of the many aides-de-camp who moved stacks of parchment and vellum to various shelves about the room. "And I'm sure the Hero would like her reward. Eamon, bring the box."

"My reward," said Atty, and this time her face was noticeably dark and flushed, "is pleasing you, Captain."

"Ah, but surely you saw the bounty out for this pair of troublemakers whom you have managed to capture singlehandedly?"

"I didn't capture them, merely aided in their transportation…"

Logan held up his hand as the aide stepped forward with a gaudily carved chest. He opened the lid, then stepped aside. "The thief is only worth a few coppers, but you'll get a silver for the draft dodger, along with the gift of your choice."

Inside the chest were three pairs of rather utilitarian-looking gloves. Each pair was of slightly different materials and design—one fingerless, one a mere wrist-wrap—and embroidered in purple, green, or gold.

"Would you like the cloth gloves, linen gloves, or velvet gloves?" asked the aide. "Each are equally defensive."

"Even the wrist guards?" asked Atty, a note of doubt in her voice, and Ffeldy noticed that she glanced down at her own, more elegant, color-coordinated gloves.

The aide wagged an eyebrow. "Especially the wrist guards, milady. They are particularly tough. Though the cloth pair are considered a more powerful design."

"I'll take the velvet," said Atty at last as she reached into the chest. "Thank you, Captain Thackeray. Your generosity knows no bounds."

The captain, meanwhile, had retreated behind his desk where he was metaphorically ripping through vellum piles with his quill as if they were risen centaurs. He looked up briefly with a mumbled "yes?" at the sound of his name, then settled back into his methodical hack-and-slash administration.

"By the way, milady" said the aide-de-camp as he closed the lid of the chest, "Captain Thackeray thought you might enjoy a brief respite from the dangers of the road."

"Doesn't he have a new quest for me?"

"Of course, milady. Instead of risking your lovely cranium in the wilds, you're to oversee the combat training of these two soon-to-be Seraph." The aide waved his hand in Ffeldy and Domanick's direction. "Escort them to the barracks, see they have uniforms and weapon lockers and a bunk apiece, that sort of thing."

"I…what? The Captain himself said that?"

"Aye, milady. Turn them into bloodthirsty fighters to be feared—or at least adequate meat-shields—and you shall have his undying thanks. Or at least…a leather pouch and harvesting instrument of your choice."

"Would it trouble Captain Thackeray if I were to…verify his instructions? To be sure there was no miscommunication?"

The aide leaned forward with a conspiratorial twist of his mouth. "Aye, that it would, milady. If you'd prefer another assignment, there are always rats to be killed in Beetletun."

"I'll take brigands—I mean recruits—to the barracks," said Atty firmly.

"Excellent. Seraph DeGlasse will be expecting you, just show him this document and you'll have no trouble." The aide pressed into Atty's hands a folded letter sealed with a bright blob of red wax. Then he turned to one of the guards. "Untie these men. Their term as Seraph recruits has officially begun."

Ffeldy rubbed feeling back into his wrists, or would have anyway, if he hadn't been shunted from the room so fast he nearly blacked out from the rotational torque. He and Domanick were jostled out again onto the mossy green plaza, where the round asura gate stood, unlit and roped off.

"Well Atty," said Domanick wryly, voicing Ffeldy's own thoughts. "You glad to be stuck with us indefinitely? I wonder how long it will take to turn the pair o' us into soljers…or even fatten us up into less bean-pole an' more meat-shieldesque physiques. Hey?"

Atty just rolled her eyes and turned to a weapons dealer, her new gloves in hand. "No, I don't want to buy a dagger, I just want to sell these gloves. They look elegant enough."

"I'll give you ten copper," said the dealer.

"Is that all? They're velvet. The raw materials alone must be ten times that. Let me salvage them for you." She snipped apart the gloves and offered plain strips of cloth to the dealer instead.

"That ain't no real velvet, milady, just a few scraps o' jute. I'll give you three copper for the rags."

"Three copper, you rascal? Then I'll keep my jute and take it to the Black Lion company instead, where buyers pay a worthwhile price."

"An' good luck to you with that, milady." The dealer gave a sarcastic tip of his hat.

"Come on, you two," fumed Atty. "Let us find the Seraph Barracks, and this DeGlasse personage. I'll show Captain Thackeray, and turn the pair of you into the most skilled fighters in all of Tyria. Then he'll have to give me a worthwhile assignment."

"Or," said Domanick with a sly grin, "you could just come out an' tell him to his face that he has dreamy eyes and the most gorgeous hair. Instead of just wearing the words on your oh-so-stricken face."

"Lucky for me, I'm sure the Captain won't mind if I bump you off first. Now come on, forward march, men."

"That woman," whispered Domanick in Ffeldy's ear as they strode off for the barracks, "could murder Queen Jennah in her sleep if she had a mind to. And who knows, maybe she does." He winked, but Ffeldy didn't return it.


End file.
